Working Hard

 

Why have I been so quiet on this page? you might wonder. The answer is simple. It's because I'm working every morning on book 9 of Branches in Time and after a few hours I begin to go a little brain dead. My mind is so entrenched in 1908 or 1848 that I can barely pull myself back to the new 2026. Making another post in this modern techy world is the last thing on my mind. I'm still digging for gold or riding in a new-fangled automobile going a whopping 25 miles and hour. It's hard for a girl to adjust. Anyway I decided to give you a tiny taste of what I have written so far. So here's a sneak peek of The Grist Mill.

She still had Lar’s tracking device which followed Rem’s dot -- she had kept it after he died in the fire, even though it was useless to her for time traveling -- but she could tell that Rem was visiting his mother and her husband in Shelby.  She supposed it was comforting for him to be with his mother who was probably doting on him and feeding him his favorite foods.  But no matter, thought Skye, it was done.  She was no longer Mrs. Hart.  She had legally taken her maiden name back, so she was once again Skye Kestler.  At first she had gone by Mrs. Hart simply because she was used to the sound of it, and it gave her some respectability, but when no husband had appeared and questions were asked about him, it was easier to use her old name and avoid the discussion completely.

A Sneak Peek

I've been working very hard on my new series.  I'd love to share just a small sample of what it is about.  Here is a paragraph from one of the early chapters.

Fran placed the key in the lock and turned, hearing a satisfying click.  She pushed the lid all the way back, because it had a tendency to fall forward.  First, she lifted out the prairie style skirt.  It was not old – well probably about 30 years old by now.  Gram always took part in the Heritage Days Festival and she liked to wear a period costume, so she had made this for herself.  It wasn’t anything fancy.  It was meant to be a practical dress worn for travel or everyday use during the 1850s to 1880s.  When Fran pulled it out, the pantaloons and camisole fell out along with the rest of the outfit.  How strange that they did not wear underwear as we know it today.  She couldn’t help herself.  Out of curiosity she tried on the entire costume.  She was the exact same size as her Gram; her family had often laughed about how Fran had grown to be a carbon copy of her.  Fran slipped on the pantaloons, tying them at her waist with the pink ribbon that was threaded through the casing.  Next, she took off her bra and put the camisole on, lacing it up at the front, tying the bow at her collarbone, her breasts straining at the thin muslin.  It seemed strange not to have the restricting under wires and irritating straps binding her, but she enjoyed the freeing feeling.  She looked at her feet and continued on with a pair of knee high stockings Gram had folded with the clothes.  They were a simple black wool and threatened to fall down until she tucked them under her pantaloons at the knee.  She noticed a drawstring on the pantaloons, which she tightened in order to hold the stockings in place.  Next, she pulled the dark grey skirt over her head and pulled the drawstring at the waist.  She tied it firmly in the back, tucking in the leftover pieces of string.  It appeared, by the amount of tie left over, that she was quite a bit thinner than Gram.  Finally, she put on the white blouse.  It was her favorite piece, with its high standing collar and the bit of ruffle down the front alongside the buttons; it was made from a more delicate fabric, and not meant as a work top.  The sleeves were gathered at the shoulder which created a small poof.  As Fran finished with the last button, she could see that she had made an error in putting on the skirt first.  The top was meant to be tucked in, so she had to undo the ties of the skirt and make the adjustment.  Only one thing was left to complete the outfit – shoes.  She looked inside the trunk again, and of course there they were, wrapped in a plastic bag to keep any dirt on the bottom from the rest of the contents.

A Taste of Chapter One

Here's a little something to tempt you with.
 It's a paragraph from Chapter One of The Tangled Roots of Bent Pine Lodge:



The Tangled Roots of Bent Pine Lodge
by Jane O’Brien

A guiltie conscience is a worme that never ceaseth.
Nicholas Ling
Politeuphuia, 1597

Kate – 2014

Chapter One


The gravel crunched under my tires as I turned onto the long drive through the woods that would take me to my parents’ cottage.  My car dipped and bobbed in the grooves made by the snow melt and runoff of the spring rains.  The two-track should be grated and then smoothed out to a hard, dirt surface.   It's one of many things I would have to take care of now that I had become the owner of the cottage in the woods.
I had forgotten what a long drive it was to get to the house.  I have not been here in several years.  The thick oak and white pine forest formed a canopy overhead, creating a tunnel effect.  The sun was blocked out completely, but I  was familiar with the setting and felt very comfortable here.  I knew what awaited me at the end of the quarter-mile stretch.  And there it was, coming into view as I rounded the last curve.  The sun was shining a welcoming ray, a beam that looked like it was meant just for this house, and this house only.  It illuminated the opening around the large log cabin.  It almost seemed as if a magical chord from the heavens should sound.  For this was no ordinary log cabin.  It was a work of art, created by my great-grandfather in the 1930s.  It was built to last, and last it had, providing a sturdy home for my great-grandparents and my grandparents, as well, to raise their children in, and then later, when all the children were grown with families of their own, it was used as a family cottage for all to share until the day my parents retired and moved here permanently.  They had not intended to be the sole owners, but as they liked to say, life happens.